


Dark Prince

by mostlyapples



Series: Bomb Voyage [1]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Beards (Facial Hair), M/M, Slash, Table Sex, Voyeurism, mushy stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-16
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-13 05:44:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2139246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mostlyapples/pseuds/mostlyapples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>selected Demo/Spy fics that I've written, which now number in the thirties. (But I will graciously spare you the worst.) This particular collection consists of same-team dynamics: companionship, romance, friends with benefits, established relationships, and more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Waking

He still isn’t used to waking up together.  Before, he had always woken up alone, the floozy long gone with his money and his dignity, the warmth of the Medic’s bed just a happy memory.  Tonight, he lies in the darkness for a few moments, just letting the wonder of it sink in.

Next to him, the Spy sleeps deeply after a long night of pleasurable exertion, snoring very softly through his nose, a drop of saliva starting to collect at the corner of his mouth.  Still masked as always, yet he seems more exposed, more vulnerable than the Demo has ever seen him.  It breaks his heart anew, and he must reach out to touch that face and make sure he is real.

Tentatively, the Demo kisses that mouth that had pulled such unrestrained moans out of him only a few hours before, with feathery brushes of his lips, until the Spy finally wakens, blinking slowly to focus on the face of the man gazing back at him.

“Spy,” he breathes, voice catching under the weight of his admiration.  “Spy.”

“Hmm?”

“Yer eyes.”

“Yes?  What about them?”

“They’re beautiful,” the Demo says simply.

“Go back to sleep, Demo,” the Spy murmurs with a drowsy little smile.

“I had to tell ye.”

“Thank you.”

He waits until the other man’s eyes droop close, and moves in to kiss him again, a little more insistently this time.

“What is it now?” the Spy mumbles fondly through the kisses.

“Nothing,” the Demo replies, a little sheepish.

“You must want something.”  He is awake now and tiny creases form at the corner of his eyes, the lines the Demo knows that always appear right before he smiles.

“Och, well, perhaps I did not get to finish.”

“Oh?”

“Yer eyes…” 

His eyes are magic, the Demo thinks to himself, though his tongue struggles with the actual words to describe the color of the Spy’s eyes, like the shade of the coming storm above the heath, the blue-gray hue of the horizon between sky and sea.  How they rival the mysterious loch in their unfathomable depth, the wayward wind for their capricious moods.  Those fey eyes that had enchanted him and that had haunted his dreams with their arresting allure, not even the mightiest of playwrights could find the words to capture their quality in English, nor any other language of the world.  But the Spy was looking at him, a curious half-smile curving his lips, and the Demo opened his mouth, let his heart speak what he had always thought.

“Yer eyes remind me of what I never had, what I always missed, what I thought I gained, until I met ye, and fell for ye.”  He paused, to let the bittersweet ache that swelled his throat subside before continuing. “Yer eyes are like… like coming home.”

“Is that what you really think?” the Spy asked, after a silence so long, the Demo began to regret saying anything.

“Aye, I do.  I may live in a mansion out there, but here with you, that’s where I really belong.”

“I am… not the type to settle down.”

“Of course not.  I wouldna want ye to.  I just wanted you to know…”

The Spy lowers his gaze then, smiling to himself, as if he could not wait to reveal a secret.  “But if I had to settle down with anyone, I suppose it would be with a prince who owns a mansion.”  With a soft snorting chuckle, he burrows into the Demo’s embrace. “I do like to be taken care of.”

The Demo laughs, relief and joy shaking his shoulders.  He pulls the Spy closer, kisses him before asking mischievously, “I give ye all ye want every night, don’t I, princess?”

“A little more wouldn’t hurt,” the Spy answers, returning his sweet breathless kiss.

 

* * *

 

The Scout bangs on the wall that separates his room from the Demo’s, hollering at them to keep it down, while everyone else cringes and tries to unhear those obscene noises echoing through the sleeping quarters and the Engineer attempts to discover what went wrong with his invention to keep their Spy tied to his own bed.

 


	2. Whiskers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for the bingo prompt: beards/stubble. Who doesn't love facial hair and body hair, glorious manly stubble? And I imagine Demoman has plenty, Spy, too.

It was his nature as a Spy to observe from the shadows.  Practically part of his job description.  But he supposed at that point, he might have been closer to gawking, maybe even verging on ogling, at the Demoman trimming his beard in front of the locker room mirrors.  For a supposed drunkard, he handled the razor with surprising steadiness, and each stroke of the blade made swift work of the soft white foam covering his chin and cheeks.  The Spy continued to stare admiringly as the razor skimmed neatly over the line of the Demoman’s throat to swipe off the last stray curls of hair and dabs of cream, impressed by the control of those large hands he thought too clumsy to do anything more than swing a broadsword heedlessly around.  He was wrong about the Demoman, and strangely enough, not too bothered by the fact.

At last pleased by his results, the Demoman flicked the last bit of foam off the razor and rinsed it off.  He was just about to reach for a bottle of aftershave when the Spy materialized by his side.

“Eh, whadya want, Spy?”

“Ah, I believe you missed a spot.”

He narrowed one eye at his sly teammate, who was still fully suited despite the humid heat of the locker room.  Though the Demoman felt certain he got everything trimmed to his taste, he had to ask, “Did I now?  Well, speak up, lad, where?”

“Hmm…”  The Spy grinned, stepping closer until he was standing nearly chest to chest with the Demoman.  Slipping off one glove, he raised his bare hand and ran a finger down the Demoman’s cheek, thrilling at the utter smoothness of the shaved skin.  “Somewhere here, I think.”

The Demoman did not quite pull away at the touch, though he did raise an eyebrow as the Spy, frowning slightly, pulled off his other glove and started touching both his cheeks with unbelievable gentleness.

“I could have sworn I saw something,” the Spy murmured in fake consternation, while secretly he reveled in being able to caress the other man’s strong chin and angled jawline to his heart’s content.  “Let me see…”

Now the Demoman could not refrain from smiling at the Spy’s ill-concealed delight.  For all of his supposed coolness and air of mystery, he could be so easy to read sometimes.   And what the Demoman was reading, he rather liked, and would not mind getting more of.  When the Spy next brushed over the facial hair above his upper lip, he puckered his mouth, catching the Spy’s fingertips in a sort of kiss.

Embarrassed at his appreciation being so easily deduced, the Spy dropped his hands away, right into the Demoman’s waiting grasp.  He tried to laugh, to come up with some smooth distracting phrase, but it was suddenly much too hot in the room to think clearly, and to make things even more difficult, his eyes kept hovering over the Demoman’s shirtless torso, his bare chest and muscled abdomen, accentuated by the fact that he was wearing only a pair of tight boxers.  All that came out was some unintelligible stuttering wheeze, the exact opposite of what he had intended to express.

They stared at each other for a few seconds, the Spy unable to do anything else with the Demoman still holding onto his hands.

“Ye wouldnae be able to pick up any missed spot with just your hands, ya ken,” the Demoman eventually said, a twinkle in his eye.  “Not sensitive enough.”

“Oh?  What would be?”

“Any woman would know.”

“I am not a woman, but I think you mean like this?”  The Spy took the chance and put his cheek to the Demoman’s face.  Of course being masked, he could not feel much of anything, but so close, here was the perfect opportunity to kiss him back.  And maybe sneak in some more petting of those magnificent biceps and flawless pectorals…

“Och, I don’t shave there,” the Demoman interrupted with a quiet chuckle.

“Wax.  You would wax.”

“You do?”

“Well, wouldn’t you like to know?” the Spy teased, most invitingly.

“I would.  But perhaps not while the wee ones are watching.”

“Scout, don’t you have something better to do?”  They watched in amusement as the youngest teammate picked his jaw off the floor and scarpered off, red-faced.

“Now where were we?”

“You were about to sweep me off my feet.”

The Spy smiled and did exactly that, to the Demoman’s astonishment.

“Your room or mine?”


	3. Watch That Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for the bingo prompt: messiness, arousal. Too short to stand on its own, hence a little interlude here.

He was the reason the Demoman wished for his other eye back.  A man could never look enough, even with two eyes in his skull.  One eye was a tragedy.   One eye could not take in everything of the Spy’s appearance, the impact of his unfairly attractive silhouette, the impression of his exquisitely dressed self.  The Demoman did his best, regardless, taking quick sneaking glances before their preparation time, at meal breaks, during the Soldier’s impromptu war room meetings.

With his remaining eye, he would follow the sharp, smooth lines of the Spy’s face, admiring the jut of his thinly squared jaw, the slope of his Gallic nose, the supercilious curve of his lips as he smirked, the enticing length of his neck as he tilted his head slightly to light a fresh cigarette.  Nearly every inch of skin was covered, and yet the mask and gloves, skimming close to body beneath, the custom tailored suit, cut to flatter and enhance the already flawless form it clothed, all promised things the Demoman was not sure he wanted to think about in the presence of seven coworkers.

Clearly, just looking at the Spy had made the Demoman’s mouth dry as sand on more than one occasion, and he thought himself lucky to have a bottle of Scrumpy at his side to quench his physical thirst, if not his true desire.

For that would happen later, in his room, the two of them finally alone, the Spy swiftly melting in his arms from the heat of their kisses.  There, he would have the coldly collected man burn for him, ignite under the force of his pent-up lust, utterly falling apart on the mattress beneath him.  His mask and gloves never budged, the Spy would not yet give up that final privacy, but the Demoman found enough to satisfy his curiosity.  Silk tie twisted askew, jacket lapels wrinkled and bunched in his grip, buttons of the waistcoat now popped as the two sought to strip each other in between kisses and soft laughter.  But always, the Demoman took his time teasing the other man out of every last bit of clothing.  The sight of the Spy in such unrestrained dishevelment, wild-eyed and panting and keening in his arousal, the complete opposite of the polished perfection he presented to the outside world, was one secret he greedily hoarded.  The knowledge that he could drag this out of the Spy, turning him into a whimpering mess with but a smiling glance, the other. 


	4. Wired

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for the prompt: Demoman/Spy - intimate bomb defusal training. Because a good Spy needs to keep all his skills sharp, he accepts some lessons from Demoman. So they sit close, very close together, in silence, focused on the circuitry in front of them, practically breathing the same air and brushing each other’s hands with every gesture. The tension builds and builds, until it gets “defused”… on that very same table. [Real actual sex ahoy!]

“Ya’ll be fine!” the Demo assured his teammate.

“Are you absolutely certain of that?” the Spy asked warily from where he stood just outside of the Demo’s workshop, suddenly afflicted with a case of cold feet not wanting to progress into a case of cold corpse.

“I cannnae kill us with my own explosives, it doesn’t work like that.”  He laughed and continued despite a tiny, oft-ignored voice of reason in the back of his mind screaming at him not to.  “And even if, if something did go terribly wrong and we did get blown into wee bits, Respawn will pick us up!”

The Spy stared at him and took a very slow half step backward.

“Look, I won’t let anything happen to you, Spy, I swear to it.”  The Demo held out his hand and aimed his most trustworthy smile at the Spy.  “Now, d’ye trust me or no?”

Before the Spy could run away, the Demo was half-dragging, half-hauling him into the shed, throwing open the door to his kingdom proudly.

“And here is where it all happens!” he crowed.

The Spy glanced about the cramped building, piled to its tin roof with crates and drums and canisters.  The workbench’s surface was covered with sticks of dynamite, half-assembled detonators, circuit boards and sundry tools and supplies.  He tried to ignore the fact that half the crates seemed to be stocking rather flammable Red Shed alcoholic beverages, tried to overlook the cigarette butts ground into an impromptu ashtray already holding silvery powders of a likely explosive nature, but that did nothing to quell the visions of fiery destruction already budding in his imagination.

“It is… very cozy.”  The Spy managed a forced grin in the Demo’s general direction, which must have been difficult, as most of his body was actually facing the exit.  “Though I see you have a lot of unfinished work… perhaps I should leave you to that?”

“Rubbish!” the Demo exclaimed, clapping a hand around the Spy’s shoulders and steering him to the workbench with some effort.  “Ye just sit yerself down right here, get a good look at what goes into the art of demolitions.”

* * *

 

Evidently a lot of Scrumpy, judging by the sharp sweet tang of booze in the air that mixed with the smell of sulfur and saltpeter and sawdust.  But the Spy could not back down now; if he were to live up to his deadly reputation, he must keep his skills up to date with the latest technology that RED and BLU could deliver.  Knowing every piece of weaponry inside and out, discovering weaknesses he could exploit, turning capabilities to his advantage - that was all part of being a spy, and he knew better than to pass up this perfect opportunity to refresh his knowledge and maybe even get an edge on his BLU counterpart, who was apparently sneaking into photography classes at a local college.

Taking his seat primly, the Spy began, “I must thank you for taking the time to train me, Demo, I know you do not normally…”

“Never,” the Demo agreed.  “We keep the trade in the family.  It’s tradition, ye ken.”

“Ah?”

“But yer a mate, and I know none can keep a secret better.”

To be trusted so implicitly, granted by a man who reeked of alcohol and who regularly made bad life choices, brought out a genuine smile from the normally reserved Spy.  He nodded and said simply, “Shall we get started then?”

With one sweep of his arm, the Demo cleared a space on the wooden table, sending grenades and bombs clattering to the floor and nearly causing Spy to bite his tongue off in an effort to keep from screaming.  First in their lesson was an explanation of the parts that might make up a homemade bomb, or the more advanced explosive devices utilized by national armies, or the ultimate in demolition technology, the Australium-enhanced units at the disposal of only the wealthiest patrons of Mann, Co.  Disabling a bomb, any of them, was not a task for the faint-hearted, or for a mercenary not already scanned into the Respawn system.

“Lucky us,” the Spy murmured, wondering if it were possible to dry-clean the sweat stains forming where the sleeves joined the body of his dress-shirt.  Surreptitiously, he slid off his coat, loosening his tie, attempting to feel as cool as he was trying to act.  It would have been easier if he were not sitting so close to his teammate, shoulders touching, knees brushing, but there really wasn’t any more room on the bench and he could not see from any other angle.

“Now the important part is breaking the circuit that detonates the bomb…”

The Spy leaned in while rolling up his sleeves under the table, studying the wiring the Demo had just pointed out on the disassembled bomb lying before them.  The objective was simple enough: disrupting or preventing the completion of the electric circuit should stop the fuse or explosive mechanism from triggering.  The trick was to get to the bomb before it was set off, whether by remote or time or pressure or agitation, and then to disrupt the right set of wires without accidentally activating the explosion.  From experience, the Spy had known of bombs that had multiple triggering devices as well as an ominous countdown timer, with fiendishly complicated wiring meant to confuse even the most trained agent.  Known, for he had never personally seen them, at least not up close or in one unexploded piece.

Here was his best chance to study the defusing of a bomb, yet he could not concentrate.  His eyes kept straying to the Demo’s fingers brushing over the wiring, almost caressing them with a lover’s touch.  The Demo’s voice thrumming though his ears and into his bones sounded too jumbled and nonsensical, his breath puffing against his cheekbone too warm and intense.

“I am sorry, Demo, I did not quite catch that,” the Spy interrupted, a little breathlessly.

“I was just saying, sometimes you’ve got to feel the flow with yer fingers.  Like this.”  He pulled the Spy even closer, so he was practically half-sitting on his lap.  “Go on, Spy, get right into the mix, there’s a good lad.” 

“And take off yer gloves,” the Demo commanded, voice wound strangely tight.  “Then…”  He trailed off as the Spy, somewhat nervously, attempted to guess which set of wires contained the circuit through intuition alone.

“Not the red ones.”

Hesitantly, the Spy singled out another wire.

“I said not the red one.”

“This isn’t red, this is burgundy.”

“That is red!”

“ _Non_ , that one is salmon, this is burgundy,” the Spy insisted.  “Different.  Anyone with eyes, or eye, can see that!”

The Demo stared at the Spy in disbelief, then shook his head.  With an air of determination, he looped one arm about his teammate, then placed a hand lightly over the Spy’s bony knuckles.  He almost started at the warmth of the other mercenary’s skin, wondered why he even noticed it in the first place, but forged ahead boldly.

“I’ll show ya how it’s done.”  The Demo placed his fingers on the wires, threading them lightly through the Spy’s to help guide him.  “If yer lucky, someone can figure out the bombmaker’s signature, tell ye which one to cut, but that’s a rare enough luxury,” he explained, as their fingers moved over the bundled wires together.  “If yer alone, ye have to sense the electric flow, where it wants to go, where the maker wanted it to go, and decide for yerself.”

“But I can’t, that is impossible,” the Spy protested, obviously frustrated, though in more ways than he cared to reveal.

“Well, ya have ten seconds to make it possible,” the Demo hissed.

“What?!”

“Nine.”

“This isn’t really going to go off, is it?” the Spy asked frantically.

“No guarantees. Eight.”

“ _Mon dieu…_ ”

As if sitting on the other man’s lap was not distracting enough, the Spy could hardly shake off the Demo’s fingertips still lingering over his bared wrist, nor the other hand starting to dig in halfway down his thigh, much less the very tangible effect his growling count down was having on the blood flow to certain parts of his body.

“Five.”

“Four.”

Taking a deep breath, the Spy focused on the snarl of tubing and copper and silicon before him.  He could feel nothing because he was not gifted as the Demo was, with a bloodline of destruction, that ability to summon explosive forces out of ether and earth.  But he could observe, he could predict, and he noted one wire twisted very slightly in a counterclockwise position, then twisted back… as if the maker worried that it might be noticed.

“This one,” he said, pulling that twisted wire out, reaching for the wire cutters.  It was powder blue, in fact.

“Och, are ye sure?  Sure there isn’t another trigger?”

He froze for a millisecond, then called the bluff.  “Yes.”

“How do ye know?”

“I felt… something,” the Spy replied in a low voice.

“And?  What did that something feel like?” the Demo murmured into the side of the Spy’s neck.

“Like… something hot, ready to ignite.  Something powerful held back, but straining so, so hard, seeking completion, seeking release---“

There was a sharp intake of breath behind him, and in the next moment, he was laid out on the workbench, the Demo’s hips slamming against his ass as the defused bomb slid out of sight.  Cursing under his breath, the Demo fumbled with his belt and his vest, but fortunately the Spy was quite willing to help him out of his armor.  Deft fingers made quick work of his belt buckle and the armor dropped to the floor with a dull clunk, revealing the taped smiley face and under that, a glorious erection ready to burst his trousers.

The Spy had to laugh at the Demo’s expression, torn between embarrassment and eagerness.  Still chuckling under his breath, he leaned back against the table to wriggle out of his own clothing as quickly as possible.  It was not an easy maneuver, with the Demo bent over him, trying to kiss him into breathlessness, grinding into him desperately.  He hadn’t even gotten his underwear fully off before his teammate was taking them both in one large hand, pressing their cocks together, stroking them off with graceless fervor.  Groaning, the Spy arched into the tight circle of his fist, his own fingers digging into the splintered, soot-stained wood of the table as he sought the friction he needed.  The Demo matched him, moan for shuddering moan, but even at his frenetic pace, all the copious precum slicking their cocks, the table creaking and rocking under the vigor of their motions, their adrenaline-filled bodies remained aching for release.

Out of nowhere, the Demo let go, just like that, and the Spy keened aloud in disappointment, before warm wet fingers slid up into him, with unerring intent.  He writhed at the sudden invasion of the third finger pushing against his prostate, but eagerly savored the temporary pain as he welcomed even more with legs spread wide.  It was unfortunate that he only had a quick glance to admire the Demo’s stiff and straining length, to lust for that massive cock to fill him up and drive him to the brink, and then the Demo was plunging into him with all the passion of his warrior spirit.

The Spy could have done without the barbaric howl of triumph, it seemed a little crass, but he was screaming like a chorus of alleycats himself, over the din of the table thumping against the wall and bits and bobs dropping to the floor.  That grip on his hipbones would threaten to bruise him for days, and he was sure he could not walk back to base on his own after this, yet the Spy cried for more, begged in every language he knew.  The Demo responded in presumably his own Scottish brogue, thrusting hard and deep into the Spy, pulling out slowly before swiftly slamming back in, until he could hardly keep that level of control and was just fucking him into an orgasmic oblivion.

His body tensed for the last time, and the Spy was coming with a low cry as all the stress from their dangerous lesson eased out of his rigid muscles.  The Demo followed soon after with an ecstatic growl, a final thrust.  The Spy gasped in relish of the sensation of hot cum pouring and pouring into him while the Demo’s cock twitched and spasmed and spent itself in his ass.  For a few moments, the two gulped down air between tired sloppy kisses, unwilling to extricate themselves just yet.

 

* * *

 

Perhaps between any other two men, there might have been awkward apologies about jumping each other without any prelude and proceeding to fuck like animals upon one person’s workspace until the other person got splinters all over their backside.  But the only thing the Spy said was, “I need a cigarette,” and the only thing the Demo said was, “I need a drink.”

“But maybe not here.”

“Aye, maybe not.”

With a grimace or two, they clothed their sweaty, sex-stained bodies, stiffly exiting the workshed for a much needed swig of Scrumpy and a shared cigarette.  As if he thought of something funny, the Demo suddenly laughed.

“Ye caught on quick, Spy. I was impressed.”

“Well, I had a good teacher.”

“C’mon, lad, I’ll show ya a preview of the next lesson.”

Gaping at what was set out on the beleaguered workbench, the Spy exclaimed, “Th-there’s five of them, chained together with… a timer on each!”

“Och, but I’ll make sure each and every one you defuse will be worth it,” the Demo whispered into his ear.

The Spy shuddered in what the Demo assumed was arousal but which was actually mostly pants-filling terror.  “I don’t think I can do it…”

“Then I’ll teach you.  As long and as hard as ya need me to, I’ll do it.”

The Spy sighed.  As much as he would have preferred to be treated to wild and uninhibited sex whenever he wanted, without having to do any extra work, he did have a mission to accomplish.  And with such well, exuberant company, he could tolerate a little more effort, a little more danger.  “I’ll hold you to that, Tavish.”

“I won’t let you down, Spy.”

The table did, however, let them down, just broke in half right down the middle.


End file.
